Letters from Katelyn
by angeleyes2838
Summary: Dear Sranger... My name is Katelyn McGregor, and this is my story. A series of letters written by Katelyn "Kate" McGregor, from the age of twelve, one for each birthday she doesn't get to celebrate until she is accepted into ADFA.
1. The First Letter

**Author's Note: **_Just a random little series that I've had in mind for a while. As the title tells you, these are simply letters from Kate (in my mind) from when she was younger and having to cope with being mother to her mother. It's a little different because it __**is **__letter form. If you like it, please tell me your opinions, and if not, I would still like to hear what you think. So please, please, PLEASE, review on your way out. I'm sorry the first part is only short, but I assure you the second part (which will be uploaded in a few days) is a little bit longer._

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_Saturday 27th April, 1991_

Dear Stranger,

My name is Katelyn McGregor. I'm twelve years old and living in Australia. I was born in England on April 27th, 1972, exactly twelve years ago today. My parents are divorced and I live with my mother. A few days ago, I discovered just exactly what I am to her: I am not her daughter, but simply her slave. I cook for her, clean up after her and mother her as only mothers should do to daughters. I tell her off when she drinks – which is all day long the entire year – and chastise her when each night, there is another man on her arm.

I am not proud of my mother, or what she has become. I am not even proud of who _I_ am – or have to be. One day I will break from this life and live one in which I am truly happy and free to do as I wish.

For now, kind Stranger, I thank you for reading, and bid you a pleasant day.

Until next time,  
Katelyn McGregor


	2. The Second Letter

**Author's Note:**

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_Monday 27th April, 1992_

Dear Stranger,

My name is Katelyn McGregor and I am thirteen years old. Perhaps you remember who I am; perhaps you have kept my letter from a year ago; perhaps you don't remember me at all. It is of no consequence really, I doubt that when these letters stop you will remember the girl who decided to reveal all her secrets to someone she cannot see or hear...

There have been many times in my life when I have wondered _why_ we have parents. A person may argue it is because they raise us, teach us right from wrong, encourage us to strive in everything we do, and say, "I love you" as they tuck us into bed at night. But, in my experience, they are nothing more – and mothers in particular – than people who are there to remind those unfortunate enough to end up with loveless parents, that living is a constant chore.

In the mornings, I waken to the sound of an alarm clock, a small fleeting reminder that it's another day of another year. It is then that I proceed to wake up the rest of the household, and no matter how hard I try I can't wake the sleeping lump that is my mother. I leave her exactly where she is and move on to get ready for school.

When I return some seven hours later, nothing has changed, save the movement and placement of my mother, who has gone from bed to couch, a bottle of whiskey – which I presume has been her breakfast and lunch – held loosely in her hand. It's a common sight, one I see quite regularly. I try my best to get her to eat regular food, even doing so much as to threaten to take away the alcohol she so desires, but to no avail. She is as stubborn as I am, perhaps a little more so.

I am _always_ still awake when the life form that is my mother finally moves. It makes me cringe to watch something so awful, and yet so heartbreaking at the same time. It is a regular routine for her: get up, drink; move to couch, drink; get up, drink; shower, drink; change, drink; and then proceed down to the local pub where she'll drink some more, get drunker than drunk, and come home with some random for a shag. I can always hear them, because I am always still awake when they get home, thinking, hoping, _praying_, that she'll see the light and stop what she is doing.

The randoms leave around two o'clock every single time, and that's when I decide to check up on her. Beside the sleeping figure, a small wad of cash sits. My mother knows that men leave money for her. I can still remember the first night she brought a man home. Before she left to do what they were going to do, she sat me down and said, "When men leave, there will be money left. I want you to come in after they leave and take the money, and keep it for yourself." Each time I fulfil my promise, those words echo in my ears.

I cannot honestly say I appreciate my mother doing something like that to get money, but I do respect that she is trying to give me something – even if it's not her true love and devotion.

Unfortunately, it is late here, and I must sleep. For now, kind Stranger, I thank you for reading, and I bid you a pleasant day – or night, in my case.

Until next time,  
Kate McGregor


	3. The Third Letter

**Author's Note: **

* * *

_Tuesday 27th April, 1993_

Dear Stranger,

My name is Katelyn McGregor and I am fourteen years old today. I do hope that I haven't slipped from your mind kind Stranger. I understand that it has been a year since I last wrote you, but I am hoping that there is at least a small memory of the thirteen year old girl you received a letter from...

There are times in my life when I wish that everything would just stop. I wish that for just a moment, the world would stop spinning and time would stand still. Just for a moment, I wish that I could have one bit of time to myself, with no chores, no worrying, mother to look after, and a never ending future in front of me. But like all the stories I've read, the absent daydream I am constantly plagued with is exactly that: I daydream. I like to think that I am a daydream believer, but I know for a fact that I'm not. I find it hard to believe that anything in my dreams will come true. I've been hurt and tricked so many times already in my life, that I see no more point in believing something that is only a figment of my imagination.

This letter may seem duller than the others I've sent to you before, but the reason for that may be that my life has just become a little more gruelling. My mother's drinking habit has increased, though the amount of men she's been seeing has dwindled down to only one. I approve of her choice in having only one man (though I suspect that she is feeling bad about not bringing in any money for me to keep), but I have to admit that the man she's taken a liking to, isn't the sort I would like to have as a guardian. He's mannerisms are absolutely awful; his looks just as bad. And although he treats my mother well enough (he still occasionally beats her, though she does not know that I know), he has this look everything he glances _me_. It makes a chill run down my spine and bile rise in my throat every time.

I'm fourteen, but I know what the look means.

Sometimes when he comes around at night, I escape the house until after midnight. I know you will disagree with me doing something, but I assure, you kind Stranger, that I am better off away from my house than within it. If I were to stay, he would surely do more than just beat me.

Please don't be alarmed at my words; I have dealt with such treatment before. I am a girl of fourteen. There are some horrors I have always had to deal with, whilst there are some I can only wish I had never dealt with, and some I hope to never deal with.

I am hoping then that it will not surprise you if I also add, that I am writing this letter to you at one o'clock in the morning. I'm currently sitting in one of the empty fields beneath the only gumtree. It's quite picturesque with the moonlight's rays bouncing off the fence and full but lonesome dam. I will miss this when I finally leave this town... This serene beauty, this silence... I've promised myself that nothing will come as close to this pure expression of nature.

I suppose, it is getting quite late for me to be up. I do have school in the morning, and a mother to make sure is alive when I wake up... For now, kind stranger, I thank you for reading, and I bid you a pleasant day – or early morning in my case.

Until next time,  
Kate McGregor


End file.
